


This has to be goodbye

by BluebellBlossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Jim Says Goodbye, M/M, Sad, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock is a Mess, Things that must end but aren't easily ended, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6409483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluebellBlossom/pseuds/BluebellBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kiss is passionate and searching, like so many of the kisses they have shared over the past year. Something is different this time, though. </p><p>Jim feels the goodbye that seeps into it, the finality in the way Sherlock’s lips mould against his with an almost feverlike desperation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This has to be goodbye

The kiss is passionate and searching, like so many of the kisses they have shared over the past year. Something is different this time, though. Jim feels the goodbye that seeps into it, the finality in the way Sherlock’s lips mould against his with an almost feverlike desperation.

 

Cold dread settles like a stone in the pit of his stomach. The moment he’s been waiting for, the death sentence, has finally come. Jim has always known deep down, since he first laid eyes on Sherlock, that it would end with his own downfall. With every fibre of his body, Jim realizes that he cannot give Sherlock the power to break him. It is better that he be broken by his own hands, to be the one to shatter the illusion they have built together. That way he will be able to retain some kind of power for himself. Something he can hold onto later, when all is finished and the darkness gathers around him again, the way it always does.

 

Abruptly, Jim pulls away from Sherlock’s lips and withdraws to his own side of the bed. Sherlock freezes in surprise, and not quite able to meet his questioning eyes, Jim looks down at their hands. They rest between their bodies, fingers twined. Seconds tick by as he swallows, and swallows again, to rid himself of the lump in his throat. Finally, he looks into Sherlock’s eyes and utters the words. Every single one of them stabbing him like sharp blades.

 

“Listen, Sherlock. It’s time we went our separate ways now.  This has to end here.” His voice is steady, and he knows for a fact that his face will only show that carefully rehearsed and perfected mask of indifference. The one he uses with his clients and his men. The one he used with Sherlock in the beginning. It feels strange putting it on again, but also comforting and well-known. This is something he is good at, something he’s done for years. Nobody can beat him at this game, not even the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

 

Still, the look of surprise in Sherlock’s eyes is like a cool hand against fever hot skin. The way his lips stiffen and press together in rebellion is like stumbling upon an oasis in the desert. The gentleness as his hands break free to cradle Jim’s head is like a flicker of light in endless darkness. The softly whispered, forbidden words from his lips are like salvation to a condemned man.

 

“No, Jim, please… Don’t do this. I came here today to end it too, but now I don’t know if I can. I can’t let you go.”

 

With surprise, Jim sees moist forming in Sherlock’s eyes. He studies it with removed fascination, like a scientist trying to explain something unexplainable. He has never seen a single tear fall from those eyes before. Before he knows what he’s doing, Jim reaches a hand up and lets this thumb catch the drop before it can start its journey down Sherlock’s cheek.

 

Jim knows he can’t accept the poisoned apple Sherlock offers. Even though the hands offering it are the most beautiful creations he has ever known on this earth. Even though he can almost taste the sweetness of it, filling his mouth with water. He knows it would turn acid and stale in this mouth. Maybe not the first bite, maybe not the second. He can’t know how long it will take before the poison sets in, but he knows it will, eventually.

 

It is only a matter of time before the gleam of admiration in Sherlock’s eyes will turn to disappointment, and the affectionate words of respect will become harsh and denying rebuffs. It is only a matter of time before the criminal Jim Moriarty will become ordinary and bland, the very thing Sherlock detests the most in the whole world. Jim knows he will not survive watching that realization dawn in Sherlock’s eyes.

 

Filled with an undeniable sense of regret of what he is about to lose, Jim looks around at the familiar surroundings of bedroom they have shared for the better part of a year. The only part of his life worth remembering. A part he’s made his life’s mission to achieve. A part that is about to end. The thought chokes him, and he has to cough to clear his throat before he can go on.

 

“Sherlock. We both knew this was never meant to last. We’ve been cheating death, and the Devil always comes to collect his rightful due. In the end, he always does. He makes no exceptions. Not for you. And certainly not for me. Let’s just end this now, before the game is up.”

 

Jim watches Sherlock’s face intently, and he can pinpoint the exact moments when defiance gives way for acceptance, sadness turns into apathy and understanding replaces denial. It feels like falling from a great height. The helplessness and inevitability of it all, the feeling of _‘what have I done’_ , hits him like a physical blow. Jim is shaken to the core, and for the first time he wonders if he regrets ever laying eyes on the man in front of him.

 

Sherlock runs a hand over his face, stopping to pinch the bridge of his nose for a few seconds before he speaks. “I know that, Jim. I know this was never meant to be. I was going to give you the same reasons for why we need to end it. But now that you took my choice away from me, I realize I don’t want to. I want to fight against it. I don’t want to…” Sherlock lets out his breath in a huff. It is a sigh of an old man. It is not like anything Jim has ever heard from his lips before, not a sound he believed the detective capable of.

 

A shimmering, glowing fragment of desperate hope ignites in Jim’s chest, and lingers there for a few, precious seconds, before he quenches it abruptly. That familiar sense of desolation washes over him. It’s just like Sherlock to only crave what he can’t have, to chase something and then grow tired of it when he catches it. Jim surrenders reluctantly to the knowledge that the moment he’s been waiting for, almost impatiently, is finally here. The moment where everything ends, when the only truly meaningful mission of his life is seen to an end. Collapsed like a shipwreck caught in the waves, never to see shore again.

 

“Don’t fight it, Sherlock. You know it has to end. You know you couldn’t do this for much longer. Admit it. Admit it to me, don’t lie to me in our last moments together.” Jim locks eyes with his lover, his face so unbearably close, so excruciatingly beautiful even in his state of distress.

 

Sherlock’s breathing hitches with emotion, and he opens his mouth to speak. Yet no words come. Jim balls his hands into tight fists, nails cutting painfully into his palms, to keep them from curling around Sherlock’s neck or twirling into that messy mop of curls. All the strength acquired from a lifetime of fighting his way through an indifferent, cold world goes into resisting the urge, into keeping his gaze steady and cold against Sherlock’s icy blue eyes. 

 

Finally, Sherlock finds his voice, though not his regular, steady baritone. “You are the one person in this world who understands me, and accepts me for what I am. The only one, Jim. And you are the only person able to hold my interest. I want to know your mind, to see how it works…”

 

Sherlock cuts himself short and closes his eyes for a few seconds. A pause filled with nothing but crushing silence between them follows. Jim fidgets with the bedsheets to try to divert his attention from the sense of defeat in Sherlock’s voice, to distract him from the fact that the entire room is spinning. The sound of Sherlock’s voice seems to grow more distant and unfamiliar with every word he utters, and Jim wonders if he will ever be able to do it justice in his mind.           

 

Sherlock draws a breath and looks Jim square in the eyes as he continues. “You kiss me with passionate fire, and then you turn icy cold and distant. We laugh, then we fight and hurt each other. You cloud my judgement. You make me feel. You make me weak. It’s affecting my work, and yours.”

 

This time it’s a strangled sound from Jim’s own lips that cuts Sherlock short. Jim doesn’t know himself where it comes from, but it sounds like something between a sob and a defeated sigh. He curses himself for letting it slip over his lips, for the fact that hearing those words he’s feared for so long strikes him with such force.

 

Sherlock’s eyes search his face again, and Jim feels like they are piercing his skin, looking straight into the very core of him. Scared of what Sherlock will find there, he makes his eyes go cold and void of emotion. He’s relieved when Sherlock only pauses for a beat.

 

“I keep thinking you could change, Jim. That I could change. That _I_ could change _you._ I’ve realized I can’t. We can’t change who we are, any of us. We don’t work that way, you and I. Do we?”

 

Jim doesn’t answer right away. That pesky hope again, in Sherlock’s voice this time, when uttering those two words, giving Jim a chance to contradict him. It’s easier to deal with now that Jim has quenched his own hope, effectively banished it to the darkest place inside of him. Relief and dread alike fills him when he realizes that he’s able to resist that part of him that wants to grasp the opportunity Sherlock gives him.

 

“We don’t, Sherlock. We don’t change. We’re like the rocks this earth is made of. Immovable and inflexible. Until we are crushed against each other. We’re the only two of our kind, and we still can’t make it work. What I said at the pool is true. No one ever truly gets to me.  And no one ever will.”

 

The lies burn him like acid _._ Jim lets his eyes roam Sherlock’s face to see if he detects them, but the detective’s face remains locked in the same dejected glower. They aren’t lies to him, and that makes Jim want to scream.

 

The truth is that Jim has shaped his entire life around Sherlock's, forcing them to entwine when they were never supposed to. Making something work that wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place. _Everything I’ve done, has been for you. And it still isn’t enough._ His own words from their first meeting still ring in his ears, taunting him. Never has he uttered a bigger lie. Internally, he curses Sherlock for being so intelligent and yet so clueless.

 

Before Sherlock, the only small moments of relief in his life came when intricate patterns emerged after hours of pouring over his laptop. Planning, plotting and anticipating Sherlock’s response, imagining his smile as he solves one of his puzzles. Jim knows that he will have to go back to watching him from a distance again, only this time left with the knowledge of what he’s lost. Another empty, black hole stapled into his chest, to be patched up with work; barking orders, endless business meetings and phone calls with people he’ll never meet. And maybe, just maybe, a glimpse of Sherlock once in a while.

 

Jim wonders how it’s possible that the ice already in his bloodstream can grow even colder. Disappointment shouldn’t be able to exist when hope has already been eradicated, but here it was again, rushing through him. He grits his teeth as he lifts the garrotter’s axe reluctantly above his head, preparing to deal the final blow.

 

“This has to be goodbye, Sherlock. But don’t worry, we’ll see each other again. In a professional capacity, I mean.” His voice keeps the level tone he aims for. The strangled sound that follows can’t quite qualify as a laugh, but it goes undetected by Sherlock. He slowly raises a hand to Jim’s face, but lets it fall before it reaches its destination. He looks utterly defeated, and Jim knows he has to leave before the hope he’s tried to bury resurfaces. He snorts at himself. _Hope is my weakness. Of all things. Hope, fucking hope._

 

Jim gazes at Sherlock’s beautifully sculpted lips as they move, knowing it might be for the last time. “Promise me one thing, Jim. Look after yourself, will you?” Sherlock’s voice is soft and alluring. Jim takes a few seconds to memorize the exact expression on Sherlock’s face as he utters those words. He will treasure that look forever, hold on to it and run it over in his mind in his darkest hours.  

 

Eventually, Jim manages to lift an eyebrow sarcastically, and gives the detective his best smirk. “Don’t let your emotions run away with you, Sherlock. I’ll manage. I always do.” Sherlock looks away and only nods in response. His shoulders are hunched, and Jim wonders if he’s ever seen a truly broken man before this moment. It still isn’t enough to make him turn around. _Better he than me. Better he than me. He has his pets, I have no one. Like it was meant to be._

 

As Jim gets out of bed and silently starts dressing, sounds from the world outside the bedroom slip in through the window. They are the sounds of people going about their business as if nothing has happened, as if the world isn’t collapsing at this very moment. Jim lingers by the bed for a few moments, and shares a final, loaded look with Sherlock, before he turns on his heel and leaves. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to turn back and ignore all the reasons he has for leaving.

 

Outside, the winter sky is bleak and grey, the fading light darkening Jim’s already black mood. He ducks his head against the wind and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. With heavy steps, he starts walking away from the flat he and Sherlock has shared. It’s like the gravity of the earth has shifted, pulling him back. Jim resists the pull, and instead starts wandering the streets aimlessly, losing himself in the hustle and bustle of the city. Fleeting thoughts of whispered conversations, soft touches and a feeling of home that he will never have again torment him. His only consolation is the knowledge that his path will inevitably cross with Sherlock’s again, some day in the future. Until that day, he will have to keep walking, never sitting down to rest, or he will never be able to get up again.  

 

Time loses all meaning as he wanders the streets of London. After a while, his body is frozen to the core in the bitter winter cold, but still he doesn’t stop. He has no idea how many hours have passed when he finally decides that he can’t avoid the looming emptiness of his own flat any longer. The silent, empty streets and the lack of other people tells him it’s probably the middle of the night. Jim couldn’t care less. The whole world seems empty now.  

 

Reluctantly, Jim flags down a lonely cab and gives the directions. Suddenly deadly tired, he leans his head against the cold window and watches his own breath make frost roses on it. It’s almost surprising to see he’s still breathing.

 

The cab ride is shorter than he would have liked, and too soon he finds himself out in the cold again, in front of an inconspicuous, posh-looking building complex. An unwillingness to go in comes over him as he stands on the curb. With a sigh, he squares his shoulders and goes inside, the thought of the 12-year-old Scotch in his liquor cabinet the only thing on his mind.  

 

As he enters the hall of his flat, he knows immediately that someone has been there. The signs are small, but they are there. The mat on the floor is slightly off centre. The door from the hall is pushed slightly more ajar than when he left. A coat on the rack is slightly ruffled. Jim’s body tenses, and he can’t decide if it is in fear or anticipation. The lock hasn’t been picked, and there is only one person except himself with a key to this flat.

 

Slowly, Jim moves through the rooms, every one of them empty and silent. His heart is pounding and his breathing picks up. Jumbled thoughts race through his mind, and no matter how hard he tries to avoid it, that infuriating, apparently perpetual core of hope inside him kindles again. The door to the bedroom is almost closed when he reaches it, and he gives it a push. It swings open, and he stares into the room, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Despite his best efforts, he isn’t able supress a small sigh when he finally makes out the shape lounging in his bed, stretched out and fast asleep.

 

Not quite knowing how to proceed, Jim allows himself a few moments of drinking in the sight of Sherlock sleeping peacefully, his mouth slightly open and his curls falling into his eyes. The events from earlier is still etched in Jim’s mind, and he pulls them forth again with all their jagged, vicious edges and spikes. He draws a couple of deep breaths to steel himself, before rousing the sleeping detective.

 

Silently, like approaching a wild animal, he pads over to the bed. “Sherlock Holmes. What are you doing in my bed?” he hisses, shaking the man by the shoulder. Sherlock gives a violent twitch, eyes snapping open. He stares in bewilderment for a few seconds as he takes in his surroundings and Jim’s face, until recognition lights up in his eyes.

 

“Jim… Where have you been? I tried calling you, but you didn’t pick up and I got… worried. I thought you might have…” Sherlock’s voice trails away as his eyes devour Jim’s face.  

 

Jim waits until the sound of Sherlock’s voice dies away before he moves. He reaches a hand into the pocket of his coat, which he hasn’t had a chance to remove due to Sherlock’s unannounced appearance. His mobile tells him he has 15 missed calls and 4 texts. Jim hasn’t even noticed it go off, and never once thought of checking it. A quick swipe reveals that 5 of the calls are from Sherlock, the rest are work related. Jim sighs heavily. Only a few hours in, and Sherlock has already managed to interfere with his work.

 

Irritation colours Jim’s tone as he replies, and he wrenches the coat off, throwing it irritably to the floor. “What part of ‘goodbye’ didn’t you get? And you didn’t answer my question.” He stares at Sherlock, spreading his arms wide in exasperation.

 

“What am I doing here, you mean? I don’t really have a good answer for that, to be honest. Only that I couldn’t leave things the way we did earlier.” Sherlock pauses, and frowns as he takes in Jim’s appearance. “Jim, you are so cold that you are shivering. Come to bed and get warmed up before you get ill.” He extends a hand towards him, and lifts the bedsheets with the other.

 

There is no doubt in Jim’s mind that if he gets into bed with Sherlock, all will be lost. Everything he has set into motion will be undone, and he doesn't know if he has the strenght to go through it one more time. He stares at Sherlock and his inviting arms, every fibre in his being longing desperately to just give in and curl up in his embrace. It’s worryingly difficult to remind himself nothing has changed. Sherlock still has the power to crush him, and he most certainly will. Sooner or later, he will. Jim repeats it over and over in his mind. 

 

“Sherlock… Nothing has changed within the last few hours.” Jim hears his own voice sounding detached and level, almost bored. On the inside, everything is chaos, and he’s fighting to keep a level head.

 

Lowering his arm, Sherlock’s face falls. “Jim, please…” he whispers. His eyes have a lost look, and Jim knows what it means for Sherlock to do this, how much it costs him. The man who never begs. It costs Jim even more to resist him.

 

Sherlock continues his attack. “We can… _I_ can change, Jim. We can make this work. We have to. These few hours since you left have been so dark and empty. I can’t go back to the way things were before. Before we...”

 

Jim knows the second Sherlock’s low voice fades out that the game is up. He is doomed, mesmerized by the sheer force of those blue eyes and all the unspoken promises those few words carries. Desperately, he tries to call back the dread and fear he felt earlier, to find the strength to do it all again. He knows it’s pointless, and with a heavy sigh, the prey gives in to the predator's seductive force.  His limbs are still stiff from the cold as he climbs up into the bed.

 

“This doesn’t really change anything, Sherlock. You know that?” he says under his breath, letting one finger trace the length of Sherlock’s face. They stare into each other’s eyes without saying anything. Jim could swear he sees galaxies reflected in Sherlock’s pupils. What Sherlock sees in his eyes that makes him look so stunned, he can only guess at.

 

Sherlock puts his arms around Jim, and gently shoves him down into bed and tucks the covers around him. Jim’s heart swells at how protective the gesture feels, and even more so as Sherlock scoots in under the covers behind him and pulls him into a firm embrace.

 

“I know, Jim. I know. Let’s not talk of it tonight,” Sherlock whispers hotly in his ear. “Let’s just forget about the rest of the world, if only for tonight. I know it’s selfish, but I need you. I need you.”

 

Jim can’t tell if it’s the hot breath on his face or Sherlock’s words that make him tremble. All his strength is gone, the defences that held Sherlock’s attacks before are all torn down. He’s weak and cornered, unable to free himself from the sweet and lethal trap he knows he’s fallen into.

 

There isn’t a shadow of a doubt in his mind that being with Sherlock will mean his ruin. Yet he can’t  bring himself to get up and leave. Not when Sherlock hugs him so close, not when he, however selfishly, proclaims that he needs him. He will be ruined, but not tonight. It will not be this night. This moment is a free zone, a breathing space.

 

Sighing contentedly, Jim tells himself he will be stronger in the morning. He’ll leave then. He nestles closer to Sherlock and continues spinning his web of self-deception.  _Tomorrow_ , he tells himself _. I will leave tomorrow_.    

 


End file.
